


Broken Matches

by sarkywoman



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-29
Updated: 2006-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They cure John, but it doesn't make him better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Matches

They should never have done it. Bobby had known at the time, but knowing wasn’t enough and he had failed to act. He’d spoken, begged, shouted, but failed to act. John had always told him that actions spoke louder than words.

Actions like the tilt of a palm and the flicking motion of a thumb that said louder than a scream, ‘fill this empty space now, fill it with fire’. But they had taken all the lighters away. Not just from John, but from Bobby too. They knew that Bobby was too eager to please, too eager to help and too stupid to know what John really needed.

Except he did know. He’d always known. He’d told them and they’d gone away and proved him right by breaking John and Bobby wishes so hard that they’d proved him wrong instead. If he’d been wrong it might have been okay. If he’d been wrong there would have been problems they could solve, him and John, obstacles that they could have thought around. Most importantly, there would have been him and John. If he’d been proved wrong.

But he’d been absolutely right. John needed fire. Needed it like air and Bobby had seen him breathe it. The memory flooded back like remembering a dream. Their previous lives of fire and ice battling for domination seemed like decade-old dreams that needed prompting to surface. But now they had woken up to this sterile room and this faded fire-resistant carpet that had been put in after they’d caught John trying to start a fire on the old wooden panels. It had almost caught too, because he’d found a place where the varnish had peeled and the old wood was exposed to his malevolent machinations.

The curtains had been taken too after an aborted arson attempt. They were threatening to take the bed. They’d already taken the books, giving John nothing to do except think of fire. It wasn’t like he’d been reading them though, he’d only ever paid them attention as tinder. But at least when the books were there, Bobby could pretend to the both of them that John was a guest. Not a prisoner. Not a patient. Now that the books were gone there was nothing to do but watch.

Fortunately, John was still a sight to behold. Even though his eyes had lost their life, they were still beautifully dark and expressive of his loss. His dark roots were tainting the blond, but he still looked like an angel, just with a halo that had slipped round his haunted eyes. His lips were dry, but Bobby would still give anything to kiss them. Just once, with John actually seeing him and feeling him.

Bobby took hold of the hand that was not flicking an imaginary lighter on and off and ran a finger over the scars. At least, he thought they’d be scars. Too early to tell yet. Deep cuts, so probably. He stared into the eyes that ignored him in favour of the non-existent flame. Sometimes he fancied he could see the fire reflected in John’s tired eyes, but then perhaps he was just going crazy too.

“I’m back. I know you’re probably tired of hearing this, but I’m sorry. They should never have cured you. I should never have let them. Please John, come back to me. I’ll make life worthwhile.”

He wasn’t surprised when he received no attention. He never did, and he’d been visiting for weeks. He’d slept in here as much as he could. But when people had the time they dragged him away. Rogue didn’t have the time anymore. She’d stopped making the time when Bobby had bit her arm last visit.

It hadn’t been personal, it just… madness was contagious. Bobby had given serious thought to curing himself, just so he would have a genuine reason to stay up here in this room with John. They could have imaginary battles of fire and ice. It would be just as good, because the powers had never been the important thing to Bobby. John had been the reason for everything. 

“I got you something,” Bobby whispered. There was a camera, so he fished the gift surreptitiously out of his pocket and held it to his chest. The camera wouldn’t see from this angle. He had to be careful, or they would stop him coming up here.

It probably wasn’t worth it. Not to draw the gaze of those dead eyes. It wasn’t entirely the flame that brought life to John, it was control. It was knowing that the fire belonged to him. Bobby had known all this, but he’d still let them inject John with the cure and take his powers away forever.

He struck the match against the box. It hissed into life. John closed his imaginary lighter and put it back in his pocket, his eyes transfixed on the small fire in Bobby’s hands. Like a moth.

Bobby held it up near his own face, feeling the heat burn from an inch away. It was like John was looking at him now, at his face, listening to him. “I love you.” John reached out to take the match, but Bobby pulled it back. He didn’t want to lose that attention.

John stared, the flickering flame mirrored in his eyes. He raised a hand, intense concentration on his face now. He always did this. Bobby should put it out, or John would fail to draw the fire to his hand and then his eyes would get a little colder and there would be blood on the floor again tomorrow. They’d taken anything sharp and barred the windows. He just gnawed at his wrists now.

John frowned and his hand tensed further. They had a few seconds before Bobby would have to put the match out. The tips of his fingers were already burning but he loved John like this. His expression was the one he always wore when doing something extravagant with a flame. And when this flame went out, so would the flame in John’s eyes. It was only a surface reflection, but it was a beautiful substitute for the burning life that should have been there.

Bobby looked away as he felt the flame in his fingers dying. He wouldn’t watch John crumple and break again. He could get out without looking and then keep the memory until his next visit, where he could pretend again. One day, it might even be enough. He threw the cooling matchstick to the floor and stood up. “I’m sorry John.”

“Apology accepted.”

Bobby looked up and saw the flames moving on John’s hand and dancing in his eyes.


End file.
